


Specificity is Key

by infraredphaeton



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canon Typical Bad Deciisons, Canon-Typical Elias' Weird Jon Thing, Elias Bouchard Canon-Typical Scheming, Gen, Martin's Giant Crush on Jon, Object Time Travel, Prophecies, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-06
Updated: 2020-11-24
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:49:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27413014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/infraredphaeton/pseuds/infraredphaeton
Summary: Jonathan Sims receives a rather strange recording, purporting to be from a future version of himself, after the Apocalypse. It warns him, over and over again, that he needs to protect his colleagues from a still living Jonah Magnus. It does not, however, tell him who, precisely, Jonah Magnus is.But the recording also urges him not to isolate himself, to treasure and protect and bond with the people around him, and Elias has just been so helpful about getting those extinguishers for the archive...
Relationships: Elias Bouchard & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 30
Kudos: 75





	1. Chapter 1

There is a cassette on Jon’s desk. He doesn’t remember putting it there, and it doesn’t look quite like the rest of the Institute’s tapes, although it has the familiar label- white, with the green owl crest, and the ex libris marking of ‘From the Archives of the Magnus Institute’, along with the tape number (83977213, which is strange, because they are currently on sequence 82). Except, the label is torn up at the corners, as though the cassette was carried and battered around in a bag, and there is a red stain on the white that Jon does not want to consider. Over the ex libris, someone has written in sharpie- a familiar hand, but again, Jon does not want to consider how his own handwriting has ended up on this tape), ‘For the Archivist’. There’s no case on the tape, it sits on his desk, over the plastic mat that he uses for a writing back, innocent.

It is not innocent, he is sure.

He picks it up, and wishes that he could actually think it might be a workplace prank. But no, the tape is genuinely battered, the curl of the label is authentic, not purposefully scuffed up, and his assistants have seen enough bizarre things by now that he doubts any of them would do this- Martin is still sleeping in the archive, after that business with Jane Prentiss, and Tim and Sasha are taking the whole thing as seriously as they can. Sasha is better at that than Tim is, but that’s a matter of personality, rather than a genuine lack of care.

So, unlikely to be a prank by the archive staff, but the tapes they use aren’t exactly well guarded. They’re kept in a locked cabinet, but it’s a locker lock, not something secure, and Jon knows that Martin, at least, often forgets to lock in behind him. He nods, and slides the tape into the top drawer of his desk, locking it in.

He’ll listen to it later- there are more important things to deal with right now, after all. He has a meeting with Elias, about getting some extinguishers. He doesn’t relish the concept of telling his boss that a strange man-thing with knife hands gave them this intel, but there’s always this look in Elias’ eyes when Jon lies to him, like he can just  _ tell _ , and is very disappointed by his actions.

The meeting is surprisingly productive, and when Jon returns to the archive, he has a bit of a bounce in his step. He’d expected an argument, a dismissal- bosses are always unreasonable when it comes to spending money, after all- but Elias had actually listened. It’s… refreshing. He feels… valued. Like someone who knows what he is doing, genuinely the head of his own department, rather than someone running to keep up with his title. When he sits behind his desk, his mind strays back to the strange tape. He checks his watch- only half past four, plenty of time before the cleaners start pointedly clearing their throats at him to vacate the office. There’s a tape machine close by- there always is, lately, which is convenient, and he should perhaps have a word with Sasha about her outfitting the office so well- and he slides the cassette in, hitting play.

“This is important-” A strident, muffled voice implores, from the recorder, “I have a lot to tell you, and not much time to do so, so listen closely, Jonathan Sims.”

Jon pauses the tape. The crackle of static beneath the voice sounds strange, but he’s not sure why. There’s certainly more to the battered tape than he had first assumed, and he stands up and locks the door before returning to his seat. The voice is very familiar, a little higher than he expects, for some reason, but very familiar.

“It- it won’t let me just speak. Not if I want this to work, and I desperately, desperately do. So. Statement of Jonathan Sims, regarding the last five years of his life and the deaths of everyone he has ever cared for. Original statement given, November 3rd, approximately. Presumably, 2020. Recording by subject, done in situ.”

Jon sits in silence as a voice- his voice, he realises, but broken open and genuine, without any front of politeness or decorum, spills out information in a hurried, strident voice. First, his bona fides, how Jon knows that it is himself recording- Mr. Spider, spoken of with practical distaste, like it was nothing, just a childhood nightmare- and then, what is to come.

“You have to protect them,” Jon hears himself say, “Sasha, Tim… Martin. They’re… Sasha dies first. Senselessly, and none of us even notice. There is a table in Artefact Storage, decorated with a Web. The table cannot be destroyed- it will make things worse- but also, nobody can be left alone with it, or they will be killed. Ah, I only have five minutes, so I must move on- Tim. Tim is going to kill himself to stop the Unknowing, and he will think he is accomplishing a life goal- look into the Circus, and the Stranger- but his death accomplishes nothing. Nothing. Martin… Martin is going to give up everything to protect you, Jonathan Sims, and he should not have. He’s too good for that- keep him close and keep him safe. Keep them all safe-”

Jon pauses the cassette again, heading over to his door and peering out through the blinds. Tim has already packed up for the day, coat over the back of his chair as he finishes his last few emails. He and Sasha are chatting as she squares up her physical paperwork, organising it into piles of urgent, waiting for response, and to be dealt with later. Martin is behind his desk, working quietly, head down. Still following up on the McKenzie case, probably. Sasha hits Tim on the shoulder with a stack of papers, and he dramatically falls across his desk, making both Sasha and Martin laugh. 

He watches for a moment more, as Sasha gathers her scarf and coat, and Tim picks up his bag.

“We’re off, Jon!” Sasha calls out cheerily, looping her purse over her shoulder.

“R-right,” Jon calls back, throat catching, “Well. I’ll see you both tomorrow.”

“See you, boss!” Tim raises a hand in a half hearted wave, and the two disappear out the door, towards the stairs.

Jon really hopes that the cassette is a hoax.

He returns to his desk, and starts it again.

There’s a cavalcade of names and dates- the voice is speaking more quickly, although its diction never falters- Nikola Orsinov, Jane Prentiss, Robert Smirke and his architecture, Jurgen Leitner- who is apparently living in secret tunnels beneath the institute- Gertrude Robinson and Michael Shelley- then a quick right turn to mention The Distortion ‘Michael’, who matches the description Sasha gave in her statement only a few weeks ago- Jude Perry, Mike Crew, Annabelle Cane, Jared Hopkins, Breekon and Hope, and, over and over again, said in a tone of voice that Jon has never heard out of his own mouth: Jonah Magnus.

Jonah Magnus is still controlling the Institute somehow. He’s still alive. He’s disguised as someone else, although the recording is so busy explaining the next four years or so that he doesn’t actually name the disguise. Someone important, Jon assumes.

The Institute is a machine to feed fear to something he calls the Ceaseless Watcher, or the Eye. But he speaks so quickly, and with such haste to cram all that he can into what limited time is on the cassette that he explains very little.

There’s a detective, Daisy Tonner, who he should both leave alone and protect. She will become something called an Avatar, to something called The Hunt. Another detective, Basira Hussein, who he should avoid, and Melanie King.

That name, he does recognise, and he ceases his frantic note taking for a moment to listen closely.

“Melanie King is going to come in and give a statement. You need to be calm when she comes in, no matter how annoying she is. If you dismiss her, she  _ will _ go out and do some very stupid things for knowledge. But don’t encourage her, either! Much like you, she’ll do almost anything for knowledge, and she does not need to get entangled in the Institute again. Don’t let her think you have a secret, but don’t lie either.”

Jon frowns, pausing the tape. It feels a little like those scenes in movies where someone is given eighteen sets of contradictory instructions. Still, Melanie King? He never would have thought that she would deign to grace the Magnus Institute with her… Influential… presence. It wasn’t like they were hiding sponsorship deals in the archive.

He smiles to himself for a moment, because he’s a petty man that way, but restarts the tape.

The narrative isn’t so much a narrative anymore, more backtracking to add extra detail- the tunnels contain a power that feeds Jonah Magnus, keeps him alive.

Jon thinks?

The voice stops for a second, taking a breath, and the static cuts out when he ceases speaking.

“And finally, yes- you’re becoming a monster, Jon.”

Jon freezes, and the voice continues.

“You’re spending longer and longer in the archives, aren’t you? Digging deeper, and it’s getting deeper into you, too. I- you can’t quit, I already covered that-”

Jon nods, looking down at the circled phrase in his notes, which reads ‘stabbing your eyes out severs your contract with the institute’, and then, next to it, ‘what the fuck’.

“It starts quickly. You haven’t noticed yet, but you aren’t eating as much as you used to, and you don’t get those reading headaches as often anymore, right? That’s the first stage. But, I don’t know if I would have made it this far if I wasn’t a monster. I won’t tell you what to do- you hate being given instruction, but you have a chance to...not be me. I wish you luck, I suppose. If you do this right, I shall never exist.”

The cassette ends, and Jon sighs heavily. In front of him is a whole eight pages of notes, and the recording was only five minutes long. There’s a lot of unsubstantiated information, but the voice on the recording (Jon does not want to think that it is him, he wants to sustain that little bit of disbelief, because the speaker sounded so  _ tired _ , so  _ hurt _ , and the things he described happening to him were… well. Horrifying, in the truest sense of the word) had provided references. Case numbers. Articles and dates, places and times.

Jon scrubs a hand through his hair, wipes his glasses on his shirt, and heads into the archive.

It’s not like Martin isn’t used to Jon working late. Although he hadn’t know until he started sleeping in the Institute, Jon apparently very commonly worked until eight or later, and was back in at eight the next day, a full hour before anyone else started.

What isn’t normal, however, is waking up for some water at that hour where it’s not morning yet, but isn’t last night anymore, and finding Jon seated on the floor of the archive, surrounded by stacks of drawn files, two laptops open in front of him, muttering to himself as he frantically pages through folders. There are three tape recorders, and a stack of cassettes, too. Jon is listening to one tape- what sounds like himself, ragged and tired- and pausing it frequently to play other tapes- himself again, but in that deep, authoritative statement recording voice- and flick through the other mediums surrounding him.

“Peter Lukas,” the tired Jon cassette says, “Captain of the Tundra, owned by The Lonely, is a particular enemy-”

“Jon?” Martin interrupts, as Jon slams the pause button and rummages through the files around him.

Jon startles, knocking over a pile of papers, and turn an acerbic glare on him.

Martin only shrinks in on himself a little bit- Jon looks so tired, big grey smudges beneath his eyes, his shirt untucked, tie loosened, and it reduces the effect of his expression, if only because he looks a bit like a student, rather than the established academic he is. The grey at his temples isn’t as obvious in this light, and instead of a well preserved forty, he looks more like a prematurely aged twenty two. Martin kind of wants to tuck him into bed with some ovaltine and take away his books so he’ll sleep.

“Jon, are you alright?”

“Fine. Just, following up on a statement,” he says, biting out the words, and Martin shuffles over, looking for a place to take a seat.

“Can I help?”

“I- no, I don’t think so,” Jon says, but he looks reluctant. “Maybe later. If it turns out- well. Maybe later.”

“Right.” Martin looks for a place on the floor to sit, but there are so many files, so many computers and tape recorders and papers that there is no place for a person. Just Jon, in his nest of research. “Well, I’ll make you a cup of tea,” he decides, “if you’re going to be up so late.”

“You should get back to sleep,” Jon says, frowning at a newspaper that is written in what Martin thinks might be Turkish.

“It’s no bother,” Martin demurs, and Jon sends him a distracted smile, just a flash of a thing, and Martin feels his face heat a little bit.

“Well, in that case, thank you.”

When Martin delivers the tea, he tries asking, “so, if I can help later, what would I be looking at?”

“Well, if I disprove it, we’ll be tracking down whatever idiot made me waste all this time, and getting them fired,” Jon says, still sounding crisp despite his exhaustion.

“And if it’s true?”

“Then I’ll figure something else out,” Jon says firmly, and drinks his tea.

Martin feels a bit out of place, so he nods, and says, “well. I’ll just. Just get back to bed then. Goodnight, Jon.”

“Goodnight, Martin.”

Dismissed, Martin turns away, and after he’s passed a few rows of shelving, he hears the tired Jon voice again, saying-

“Whatever you do, do  _ not  _ let him get hurt again.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your comments! They really motivate me to keep writing. NGL, it's very hard to write Tim, Elias, and Jon as their S1 selves. They just change so much over the series... I've tried to keep the timeline accurate, to some degree. I always got the feeling the supplemental recordings are recorded separately to the statements, but that may be entirely wrong. Oh well. My story now.

Jon manages a full day of work on two hours of sleep (taken at his desk from the hours of five to seven), fourteen cups of tea (Tesco Homebrand, splash of milk, no sugar), with only a severe headache. Considering he is no longer a student, he thinks this is a significant victory, and manages to go about his day with only the mild inconvenience of knowing that everyone he works with is going to die horrifically in the next few years.

Except Martin.

That’s some small victory, at least, even if it’s puzzling.

He records a statement, but the laptop mic takes it easily, which he is starting to see as a sign of worthlessness. Sasha gives him the follow up information for the Bilham case, which means he can finish recording the supplemental, soon, and Tim is his usual, far too loud, overly gregarious self. 

He certainly doesn’t  _ seem _ haunted by traumatic circus related paranormal phenomena.

But then, Jon hasn’t snuck up on him with a DVD of Cirque du Soleil and checked his reaction, so who’s to know, really.

It’s not that Jon isn’t aware that he’s on the edge of manic, he’s moving from statement to statement with speed, throwing out anything that strikes him as inauthentic, and he’s snappish with Tim and Martin (Sasha skates by because she’s just too efficient- there’s literally nothing to complain about, other than that she isn’t miserable and tired the way that Jon is).

“Are you alright, Jon?” Tim asks, when Jon is rattling towards the break room for his eighth cup of tea, “Rough night?”

“No, no,” Jon waves him off, “not that it’s relevant. Where are you at with the Blake follow up?”

“All followed up on,” Tim shrugs. “Mr. Blake is not extant.”   
“What? He died?”

“Nope. He doesn’t exist. Whoever Antonio Blake is, that is  _ not _ his real name.”

Jon lets out a frustrated sigh, and slams the kettle on. It begins to bubble quickly, at least, which is a small mercy as he begins fishing around in the cabinets for tea.

“What about the Kelly statement?”

“You still want me to follow up on that? Even with Martin and the worms and all?”

“Do I still want you to follow up on that?” Jon dropped a tea bag into his mug, and rolled his eyes. “No, Tim, due to a minor issue regarding strange annelids, I no longer want you to do your job.”

“So, a rough night, then,” Tim observes, as Jon slams back towards his office, leaving the milk out on the counter and a teabag in the sink.

“Annelids, huh?” Sasha says, wheeling her chair over closer to Tim’s desk, “we know he’s snippy, if he’s breaking out the University Challenge vocab.”

“A minor issue?” Martin repeats, mouth twisting down, “I-uh. That’s-”

“Rude?” Tim offers. “Thoughtless? Jonathan Sims all over? ‘I don’t care that you got trapped in your house for over a week by an evil worm lady, Mah-tin, why didn’t you complete your caseload?”

“Oh, it’s not like that,” Martin demurrs, “he’s just… I think he’s a bit poorly, you know? He stayed very late, last night.”

“Probably got caught up looking for more ‘annelid issues’,” Tim says, rolling his eyes, and Sasha swats him on the shoulder.

“Or, he’s worried because Martin got trapped in his house for over a week by an evil worm lady. Cut him a little slack, Tim.”

“You can’t make me,” Tim sniffs, but turns back to his computer to try and follow up on Moira Kelly’s statement.

Martin gets up, and puts the milk away.

After a morning of frustrating research and slow moving assistants, Jon trudges upstairs to a meeting with the other department heads- Artefact Storage has yet  _ another  _ new head, and he doesn’t bother to memorise her name. It’s strange, being outside the archives- the upper floors of the Institute are very modern, all glass walls and open plan working, save for Elias’ office and a few boardrooms reserved for confidential meetings- but it’s good to stretch his legs and see what the other departments are doing.

He isn’t the last in the room, at least- Artefacts, represented by an older woman in a sensible lavender cardigan, is five minutes late- but Library, Research, Payroll, HR, and Media are all already seated. Elias hovers over them all, standing at the head of the table by the slideshow projected on the wall, and he offers Jon a warm smile as he takes his own seat.   
“So, Jon, how’s the basement?” asks Research (Mike Smithers, Jon’s old boss), and Jon adjusts his glasses. “Hope you aren’t feeling too isolated, down there! Just the four of you, hm?”

“It’s all we need,” he responds icily.

“Not too stuffy?” Research asks sympathetically, and Jon very purposefully does not scowl.

“Adequately ventilated, with the new air system,” Jon replies, knowing how hot the Research wing gets, and Research rolls his eyes, turning back to HR.

Schoolyard politics- they’re all grown people, these things should be beneath them, Jon thinks, there are people being eaten by tables and killed by circuses and eaten by fogs, and Research is mad that Jon took the last muffin last Monday at the strategy meeting. Elias meets his eyes and flicks them skyward as if sharing his exasperation, and Jon scowls at his pen, tapping it on the notebook in front of him. He can start planning, maybe? Except the tape said there was someone in the Institute, Jonah Magnus masquerading as someone else- what if it’s Mike, or Sandra, or, heavens forbid, Bob?

Jon shoots a testing look towards the head of Payroll, but he is busy with his conversation with Media, and doesn’t notice it.

No, it’s best to keep the notes in his head, keep his writing as cryptic as possible, in case someone is watching him. 

Artefacts takes the final seat, and Elias clears his throat. All conversation quickly stops, and the various department heads turn to their boss.

Jon scratches a doodle of an eye on his paper, then a little flame. A face, a bone, a knife (to Jon, at least- somebody else might not recognise it), a set of fanged teeth, a spiral, a cloud, a keyhole, a little dark circle, a worm, a skull, and finally, a little web.

Elias is talking about modernity and IT usage.

So, those are the entities- what about the enemies the cassette had mentioned.

Jon cannot write down Jonah Magnus- not out here, where anyone could see. Instead, he draws another little eye, and the sensation of being watched seems to double, out of nowhere. He darts a look up, at the rest of the meeting, but everyone is watching Elias, or taking their own notes.

Elias pontificates on how the Institute is doing terrifically well, and mentions the Archive fire suppressant upgrade, which gets Library up in arms about how they asked for a similar upgrade almost two years ago.

Jon, who is trying to figure out how to refer to the Circus in a way that does not make it clear he is referring to the Circus, snaps back into the conversation.   
“We need that system,” he says, and Library rolls his eyes.

“So do  _ we _ , Jonathan, and we’ve been waiting longer.”

“This isn’t a restaurant, Alan, it’s not first in, best dressed.”

“Quite,” Elias agrees smoothly, disrupting the argument before it can get started, “Alan, we’re certainly looking into your own upgrade, but Jon’s done an audit as part of his department take over, and we really must prioritise based on need, you understand?”

Alan rumbles unhappily, spitting out a few phrases like ‘priceless books’, and ‘unrivaled collection’, but Elias brushes it off, making some pacifying small talk. He makes knowing eye contact with Jon as he talks about priorities a little more, and eventually, after an interminable hour, Jon is free to retreat back to the archives, and his far more pressing business.

Or, he should be.

“Ah, Jon!” Elias catches him, a hand on his shoulder, “if I could steal you away, just for a moment?”

“You’re the boss,” Jon agrees unhappily, and follows Elias into his office.

It’s a modern affair, with a huge picture window that overlooks the main Institute entrance, so that Elias can see all his workers, scurrying about like ants, and Elias’ desk doesn’t even face it. The desk is an old fashioned thing, absolutely massive and made of dark, polished wood. It has green baize set into the top, like a snooker table, several expensive looking fountain pens, complete with decorative ink well, and a large, very intense looking tiered in-and-out-tray system. The sleek computer looks entirely out of place, and so does the chair that Elias sinks into- plush, black leather, with ergonomic padding. It is the type of chair that Jon, workaholic that he is, dreams about at night, when his spine is trying to realign itself.

“Take a seat, Jon,” Elias says, waving to the slightly less plush chair on the other side of the desk. It’s still significantly more comfortable than Jon’s desk chair, he thinks, as he sits down. “Now, I’d just like to check in with you,” he says, in that particular Elias tone of voice that says ‘I can tell you want to say something, just confess now and save us both the time’. “As I say often, I do consider myself more of the ‘hands off’ type, when it comes to management.”

Jon mumbles agreement.

“But I am, if you’ll excuse the joke, an ‘eyes on’ manager. And I’ve had my eye on you, Jon,” Elias looks awfully understanding, and he steeples his hands in front of him before spreading them, “but I can’t help if you won’t come to me with your problems.”

“I-”

Jon pauses.

His future self had five minutes to communicate everything Jon needs to know for the next five years. There were names and dates, fervent desires to be fulfilled, and warnings to heed. Of those, there were two that he beat in, over and over.

One- Jonah Magnus was a threat not just to Jon or his team or the Institute, but the whole world.

Two- Jon Sims could not solve this problem alone.

(Also Three- do not take the tape outside of the Archive, or it may cease to exist, but that seemed less relevant)

“I know, Elias,” Jon agrees, and Elias looks at him expectantly.

“Would you like some help, Jon?”

“I- yes- not at the moment,” Jon shakes his head, “I need to try and figure this out for myself, I think. But, perhaps. Yes, in the future-”

Elias watches him struggle with his words for a few moments, before his steely face turns to something more pleasant.

“Well, you’re a grown man, Jon, and you’re growing into your new role so beautifully. I shan’t undermine your judgement. If things change-”

“Your door is always open?” Jon guesses, and Elias smiles.

“For you, certainly.”

Jon waits a moment longer, and Elias waves a hand.   
“Don’t let me detain you, Jon. I’m sure the Archive has need for its Archivist.”

“R-right. Yes. Well, I’ll get a move on,” Jon says, standing, and Elias watches him as he leaves, still smiling.

The Archive is still standing when he returns, and his assistants turn and look at him guiltily when he walks in, which tells him exactly what they’ve been talking about.

“Got the information on the Burroughs case,” Sasha volunteers, when they have stared blankly at each other for a little too long, and Martin shuffles his chair back over to his desk as surreptitiously as he can. Tim pushes off and lets the wheels carry him back, with absolutely no embarrassment, shooting Jon a charming smile that is, unfortunately, almost as charming as he thinks it is.

“It’s past four,” Jon says, darting a look up to the clock over his office door, “you may as well leave it for tomorrow.”

Sasha blinks, putting down her print out slowly. Tim does a full double take, and Martin squeaks.

“It’s not that strange!” Jon barks, and they all studiously avoid his gaze. “It’s- look, it’s almost five on a Friday, I know you all want to be out early- I’m not a fool.”

“Are you going to leave early, too?” Martin asks, with a kind of fragile hope in his voice, and Jon snorts.

“Certainly not. I have work to do, Martin.”

“Certainly not,” Martin agrees, sounding deflated, but he joins in as the other two begin to close up their computers.

“We’re going out for drinks,” Sasha says cheerfully, “you can always join us, Jon.”

“I don’t think so,” he says, and she persists, looping her mustard scarf around her neck.

“We’ll be staying out pretty late, you could join us once you’re done,” she says, sing-song in attempted temptation.

Beer is not more important than saving lives, Jon thinks sourly, and watches her give up, joining the other two at the door.

“Not this time, boys!” she says, cheery in her failure, and Martin sticks his hands in his pockets, slumping a little.

“If he ever does,” Tim says, “I think it’ll be a sign of the end times, Jon coming out for a round.”


	3. Chapter 3

Saturday morning, Jon goes back into the archive, and loads the cassette into the player again.

It’s quiet- Martin isn’t there, after all. He has some kind of standing appointment on Saturday that sends him off full of forced cheer and brings him back pale and quiet. So, at the very least, Jon has the Archive to himself to listen again.

The tape hasn’t changed- which he wouldn’t have been surprised by- but is no less intelligible. Jon has, at least, had the chance to fact check what he could (all of which has come out as correct), and he’s had a solid seven hours of sleep, so he can, at least, look at facts with some intelligence, rather than through a muddle of tension headache and panicked archival records.

The issue is one of paranoia, Jon thinks to himself, tapping his biro on the notes he’s made. The future Jonathan, the one who recorded the tape, has left completely useless, contradictory instructions with the kind of venom that Jon is used to hearing only in his own head at three in the morning. 

Really, this is absolutely typical. Five minutes to save the world, and Jon wastes a solid forty five seconds on telling himself he’s a useless piece of shit, rather than doing something useful like giving out the lotto numbers or, explaining the full extent of the entities, or, hey, just a random suggestion, but maybe he could have  _ actually said who Jonah Magnus is _ !

But no, instead, Jon is left with eight pages of names and dates and vitriol aimed at himself, which can be summed up as:

Trust no-one, Jonah Magnus is watching you.

Trust your friends, you useless paranoid nut job.

Do not make direct eye contact with Georgie Barker, let alone contact her.

Be more open and communicative and let people know how you feel and what’s going on.

Jonah Magnus will use you to try to end the world, because you cannot accept anything at face value and not investigate it.

Do not accept anything or anyone at face value.

And then the flood of names and dates that read like a rejected verse of ‘We Didn’t Start the Fire’ with very disturbing implications. He’s found several of them in the statements already, names familiar from earlier recordings- Mike Crew and Jared Hopworth are both ones he’s read before- or easy to pull with the case references given on the tape. There’s a stack on his desk, but Gertrude has left the archive in such a state… he’s had no luck trying to find anything about Annabelle Cane, just empty spaces in the shelves where the statements should be, but Jon’s unwilling to consider any occult reason behind it, rather than just bad filing.

Perhaps he should. Maybe Gertrude’s unwillingness to shelf by date was sinister, rather than senile.

Jon sighs heavily, and drops the pen. There’s no point in dwelling on Gertrude Robinson.

Although...Jon pages through to the page where the Jonathan on the tape had gone on his rant about Jonah Magnus- there’s a lot about how he can read minds, and push memories to the forefront- apparently he’d used the technique on Martin- and see all, anywhere- and how he had killed Gertrude Robinson.

Whoever he is, it’s someone capable, someone sinister.

But Jon doesn’t have the resources to figure it out on his own.

He sits back in his chair, and considers the people he could ask to help- the obvious option would be to let his assistants in on it. 

Four heads are, he supposes, better than one, and from the tape’s description, apparently Martin has hidden depths.

Very hidden, almost invisible, impossible to detect, depths.

Sasha is the most effective researcher Jon’s met, and has experience in artefacts as well as less practical research. There’s a reason that she’s Jon’s usual first port of call for any statements that nag at him, unable to be denied by simple skepticism. But, according to the tape, she dies horribly and none of them notice for nine months.

This does not fill him with confidence.

Tim… Tim is very good at people- the kind of person that has never hidden from a party by sitting on the floor of the laundry to talk to the cat- and a capable researcher as well. Not quite up to Sasha’s technical level, but his social mechanisms make up for it. But, again, according to the tape, Tim is going to kill himself in an explosion to get back at a circus full of evil mannequins- which was entirely unnecessary, as they were fated to fail anyway.

This does not strike Jon as a particularly deft maneuvre. 

So, perhaps not his assistants. Not at this juncture, at least. Once he has a plan of attack, perhaps, some sort of… something, that makes him feel like he knows what he’s doing.

His pool of acquaintances is rapidly dwindling. Jon is not a social person, and he is not exactly Mr. Congeniality. Who else?

Georgie?

No, the cassette was very clear that he should not, under any circumstances, drag Georgie into this. Not that Jon has even  _ thought _ about Georgie in ages, beyond the occasional wistful thought of The Admiral.

He takes a moment to pause, and think upon his favourite cat in the world.

Still, Georgie is right out. Who else?

The caretaker in his building is fairly friendly, but Jon would feel a little strange bringing up eldritch fear monsters with Mr. Kapoor, no matter how often he tells Jonathan that he should stop by for a cuppa sometime.

He keeps returning to his assistants, to the Magnus Institute as a whole.

Surely, if there is anyone qualified to help him with this, they would be here?

Jon flips through the notes one more time, hoping for some kind of hint.

Surely, there’s someone who isn’t going to die horribly, and is qualified to help Jon figure out what’s happening?

* * *

Elias Bouchard is having a relatively boring Saturday.

Like most Saturdays, he woke up at a normal hour- allowing an extra hour’s sleep as a little treat to himself- and came to work- again, allowing a more casual look, what with it being the weekend- and settled down to deal with the mixture of boring, mundane minutiae and eldritch problems that comes with being the head of the Magnus Institute.

He does a quick circuit of the building, not leaving his desk, just to see what is happening. There are eyes throughout the institute, and have been since it was first founded, but there’s little happening beyond Annie from Marketing stealing out of the tea caddy. He makes a note for her supervisor, and notes that Jon is pacing up and down the corridors in the archive, pulling at his hair and muttering, eyes wild.

He’s ahead of schedule, that’s nice.

Elias returns to his work, making a note to thank Simon for the lovely magnifying glass he sent as a Christmas gift- it’s already eaten five people from Artefact Storage, which is so very thoughtful, but unfortunately, people do tend to notice such things, these days. So, the note will have to be slightly reproving in its thanks. Elias has moved the magnifying glass up to his office, as he finds that the people he meets with are unnerved by its presence, even if they aren’t sure why, and corporate sabotage is always a fun past-time.

A few hours later, he checks on Jon again.

He’s worked his way into quite the lather, a cork board rolled into his office with a… very interesting group of statements all pinned to it.

There’s no red string, but that is probably because Gertrude always found it rather gauche, and never had any in stock. Instead, Jon has created chains of paperclips, and is using them to link the different statements. In the middle, he has drawn a large eye, from which Elias is observing him. As such, Jon keeps turning desperate, confused looks at him, and it’s quite fetching, really.

Has he already figured out the entities?

Elias may have chosen his Archivist too well, really.

He looks away as Lily, his weekend secretary, comes in with a cup of tea and a bourbon cream for him. A dismissive smile, and she returns to her desk, but when Elias tunes back in, Jon has left his office. He’s clutching a notebook to him, covered in his doctor’s scrawl and more doodles of eyes, knives, and… is that a lobster? It’s probably not a lobster- and is making his way up, through the Institute, at a fevered pace.

He looks like he hasn’t been sleeping well, which is fine, but his shirt is untucked, sticking out from under his jumper, and he has completely discarded his tie, collar open like a truant schoolboy, and he looks entirely out of place in the glass corridors of the modern Institute. 

That’s when Elias realises that Jon is making a beeline for his office, and he frowns, opening the desk drawer to ensure his pistol is still there and loaded.

Always best to be prepared, and Jon is striking a particularly fevered figure at the moment, although it would be a shame to lose another Archivist so soon.

He’s just closed the drawer and folded his hands atop his desk when he hears the knock on the door.

“Mr. Bouchard? Mr. Sims is here for you?”

“Send him through, Lily, thank you,” Elias says smoothly, and Jon slinks in. He looks even worse in person, although he’s smoothed over his hair while standing in the corridor, and is trying to look a little less deranged, which is very professional of him.

“Ah, Jon,” Elias says warmly, and Jon nods awkwardly.

“Elias,” Jon says, as if he’s only just realised that he is in Elias’ office.

“Take a seat,” Elias waves, and Jon sinks into the visitor’s chair like his strings have been cut. “Did you want to discuss something?”

“Yes, yes- I- well, it sounds pretty strange, now I’m here.” Jon turns, blinking, to look out the window at the street, where all the normal sounds of a Saturday can be heard and seen.

“Working in the Archive can be strange,” Elias agrees, and Jon nods.

“It’s. Well, maybe I should just show you?”

“I’m happy to see,” Elias doesn’t lie, and Jon passes over the hurried notes he’s been holding to his chest this entire time.

Jon is not very patient, as Elias looks over the papers.

The papers which outlie, patiently and thoroughly, exactly how Elias succeeds at taking over the world in the next few years. Is this some kind of confrontation? Is Jon going to leap across the desk and try to kill him? Elias subtly opens the drawer, and puts a hand on his pistol.

“And how did you come to get this?” Elias asks smoothly, once he’s finished his second read- he particularly likes the part where Jon is fooled into reading the ritual aloud while Elias gets to gloat. Jon is obviously distressed, and Elias takes the chance to peek into his mind.

Oh.

Oh, he has no idea. He knows that Jonah Magnus is a threat- the  _ main _ threat, even- but he has no idea that Elias is Jonah.

“I-I got a message,” Jon says, running a hand over his hair, “in the archive. It’s real. To any extent that I can prove, at least. Elias, you know I’m not gullible, I have  _ proved _ this, as far as I can tell. It’s what’s going to happen. Or, what could happen, I suppose.”

“A warning?” Elias pushes.

It’s glorious, seeing his plan come to fruition so smoothly, except…

It hasn’t, has it? If it was smooth, then Jonathan wouldn’t be sitting opposite him with this information, ready to fight back.

Elias blinks slowly, smiling at Jon, and very quickly comes up and dismisses three dozen plans.

“I think so- except, there’s one thing that’s bothering me.”

“Only one?”

“Well. A lot, I guess. But specifically, that you aren’t mentioned at any point?”

Another few plans, and Elias does a quick cost-benefit analysis. Ms. James is quite smart, and could probably take over the Archivist position without too much trouble.

Jon is waiting, staring at him, and Elias feels the tiniest push at his will.

Oh, now that is interesting.

He makes a decision.

“I suspect, Jon, that I’m not mentioned, because I’m dead in your future, and there was nothing you could do about it.”

“But, Sasha and Tim are both mentioned- Helen-”

“All of which you could prevent,” Elias interrupts smoothly, “but if it’s out of your hands, why trouble you with a failure you cannot do anything about?”

Jon frowns, and Elias nods.

“See, there are a lot of things to discuss,” he taps on the papers, “and not much time to do so, correct?”

“Yes…”

“So, why waste time with something- someone- you cannot save?”

“Why wouldn’t I be able to help you, though?”

“Oh, plenty of reasons,” Elias dismisses, “but you and I, Jon, I think that working together, we will be able to accomplish far more than either of us could individually.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To the tune of We Didn’t Start the Fire (specifically the JFK verse):
> 
> Mind control, The Stranger, web table will change her
> 
> Michael, Helen, they are both Distortions
> 
> "You are watched by many eyes", slaughter’s into omnicide
> 
> Jared Hopworth takes a rib, Tundra is a haunted ship
> 
> Mike Crew, Hill Top Road, cringe at Jon’s mental load
> 
> Martin K, sent away, what else do I have to say

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! This is my first TMA fic, so please be kind, and comment if you like it. If you want to chat, I'm on twitter @halfheartedemo, and my tumblr is @ramblingstride!  
> While I did not tag m/m, please assume canon-typical giant Martin crush is still very much happening.


End file.
